Is this when you cry?
Where you tumble
down the hillside
beg and plead for
another lazy day
one more wasted minute?
A week you’ll wisely
Imbibe sobriety?
This isn’t the return window-
your tickets’ punched
and sad to say
poets do go to hell
Say hello to your friends
exchange a word or two
but be forewarned
the readings last forever
More from Issue #2
Travel by Dave Gregg
She packed a magazine! for overnight I saw her! And wonder, “Why this issue?” Am I not enough to occupy her every waking? Does my presence invite such dread? My insulted ego…
Birth Place by Dave Gregg
In the nineteenth century the delta was a swamp layered with rich life forms Rife with great white oak but commerce triumphed and the swamp was drained Great levees were constructed cotton…
Blues Noise by Dave Gregg
When the blues are played dirty (as must be) and they ricochet off the brick walls and echo over the levee linger long enough to join chorus of field hollers so long…
Strange Material by Emily Vanston
Strange material You have rendered. You have penned Strange words: Broken dark things, clenched In broken coils, Blood-choked and Clotted, Oozing oily slow Onto the page, Smeared—your hand Shaking, Secreting shadows From…